She smiles. “Angela and I were in Imperial World Literature class together, my third year of college, her senior year. We did some group projects at a time when her French was not so good. We helped each other. Her patience is responsible for my level of English today.” Nour pauses. She struggles to say something, leaning against the counter that encircles the kitchen.

“We hadn’t been close for a while, me and Angela. Life does that. Takes you to other things that seem important, instead of people you care for,” she whispers. “You really look so much alike.” She drops her head. Pink curls shudder, a neon crown.

I don’t know what to say. What should I say? “We are . . . identical.” Stellar, Shayna. I crack my pinkie. “It seems like you two were very close. I missed so much of her life these last three years she was in Paris.”

“Everything has been crazy. First the shooting, then Angela disappearing—two students died, did you know?”

Some pocket of memory registers. “I think I read that. Did you know them?”

She lifts her head, tears on her face. “Does it matter? This is a rarity here. This is not like in the United States, a school shooting every month. It is almost impossible to obtain a gun in France if you’re not military. You have to go on the European black market.”

I open my mouth to defend my country, but the verity of her words, the anguish of her voice stops me. It’s true; I read about the students, then glossed over the shooting’s details that didn’t directly relate to Angela’s disappearance. Traumatic headlines don’t faze me like they used to. I don’t have enough bandwidth to care as much as I would like. Maybe that does make me callous. Shame coats me all over, and I examine the calendar on her wall to avoid meeting her gaze. Notes, arrows, and circled dates cover the page. Just like Angela’s.

“You’re right,” I whisper.

“She missed you. She talked about you all the time, about the missing sister from her life back home. Things you would have said and done. Locations she wished you were here to see. And now I’m having the exact same conversation, only with her twin about her. Putain, c’est bizarre.” Nour steps back from the counter to lean against the sofa, where Hugo now sits.

Did she tell you she abandoned me after our parents died?

What did she tell you, exactly? That I never came to visit her?

Conflicting emotions batter me on all sides as I think about the times I needed Angela while she was eating cheese in Paris, hanging out with Nour. Another shot of jealousy and frustration pokes at my insides.

“What was her life like these last few months?” I try again. “It seems she was knee-deep in doctoral studies.”